


The Orchid

by ktbl



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Genji Shimada, Dubious Consent, Established Friendship, Explicit Consent, F/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Sex Pollen, Shameless Smut, Shower Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25682509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktbl/pseuds/ktbl
Summary: The existence of Blackwatch has been revealed, and the brilliant geneticist Dr. Moira O'Deorain has been terminated by Overwatch. She presents Dr. Angela Ziegler with a farewell gift - a beautiful orchid - and instructions for its care. Like all things from Moira, it has its secrets.(Dubcon because sex pollen, but there's definitely explicit consent in here too, it's just murky)
Relationships: Genji Shimada/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 14
Kudos: 98





	The Orchid

For all the terrible things she can say about Moira O’Deorain, she does have excellent taste in flowers.

Dr. Angela Ziegler stares at the small plant on her desk, deposited there not fifteen minutes ago by the departing Blackwatch geneticist. It’s an orchid, the Irishwoman had explained condescendingly. Keep it in a warm room, water and fertilizer as needed. Remarkably hardy, for all that - and white and orange and gold, just like Overwatch’s darling Mercy. A little token to remember her by. And surely Overwatch’s chief medical researcher could keep an orchid alive.

Had it not been so pretty, a half-dozen buds not quite ready to bloom, Angela would have thrown it immediately into the rubbish and damn the consequences. But the past months had been hard, the revelations of Blackwatch’s existence and its clandestine actions making the news, rocking even some in Overwatch with the details. Reyes and McCree and Shimada have all returned to the main base, nominally suspended. The only benefit had been that Genji had taken to visiting her late in the evenings, discussing the possible modifications that might be done to him, to make the cybernetics slimmer and sleeker. Moira… well, Moira was the sacrifice to the media and the UN, not suspended but fired. And she almost seemed sad to go. Maybe she wasn’t such a terrible woman after all, leaving the orchid for Angela. She wants something pretty, something untouched by violence, now. She sits at her desk and brushes a fingertip along one of the buds, soft and delicate. Something not born of death, but bearing life.

There is a knock on her door late that night, and she looks up from her bitter coffee to see the black and red figure of Genji in her door, a mug in his own hands.

“Would company be acceptable?”

“It always is,” she says promptly, rising up and sparing a glance for the orchid. “I have been working on schematics, new iterations of your enhancements, if you’d like to see them.”

“Always,” he echoes. “Anything that will make this less uncomfortable, less cumbersome. I know you did the best you could.”

“Preserving life was most important,” she says as she walks to the coffee maker, and he joins her. “We tried. I tried. Is it still bad, your pain?”

“It gets better, sometimes.” He looks down at her, takes off the faceplate carefully. “But it is always there.”

“We shall have to fix that. You deserve a good night’s sleep.” She hands him a mug with coffee, adulterated the way he likes it. She wishes, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that there wasn’t professionalism in the way between them. “Come on, then, and I’ll show you the latest iteration, what I’ve been working on with Torbjörn.”

She returns to her desk, Genji trailing along behind her, and they spend several hours in conversation, and she enjoys every moment she has of touching him - for purely clinical reasons - to discuss refitting, streamlining, changing the connections. He takes his fair turn of brushing her shoulders, using her as a model for the fit where he cannot reach on himself. Fingers skim over her lab coat, the back of her skull, her wrists and hands and fingertips. When they part in the small hours of the morning, the coffee pot is empty and the room is thick with tension.

He does not ask about the plant.

It takes the orchid two more days to open its first flowers, the petals unfurling at some point without her noticing. The first blooms are pale white with orange tips, the insides of its leaves shading golden like her Valkyrie insignia. It’s pretty, and that might be the other reason she doesn’t immediately toss it into the bin.

Her life is irrevocably altered one evening as she sits with a cup of coffee in her office. One moment she’s sketching out ideas for a new research project with nanobiotics and monitoring equipment, and the next there’s a sound like a delicate sigh. The innermost folds of the flower split open to reveal a warm orange center, and the pollen floats up and out to coat her clothes and skin and desk. She sighs in annoyance and then inhales. It’s a sweet scent, almost honey-like, and the pollen seems to shimmer faintly in the light. Annoying, but pretty - she’ll have to wash up before bed unless she wants to roll around in the stuff, and have her lab coat washed too. Thankfully she doesn’t see patients here, so she doesn’t have to worry about fully sterilizing the room.

She glances at a clock - nearly nine at night. Most of the headquarters will be empty now.She runs a hand through her hair, skin feeling prickly with annoyance and warmth. If someone has turned off the air conditioning now, under the pretense of environmentalism - well, Mei would have been happy, but Angela will have their head. It’s like the room is suddenly too hot, her skin sensitive and suddenly almost painful. The orchid could use the warmth but this seems far too abrupt.

She stands up and takes off her lab coat, hanging it over the back of her chair. The movement sets the pollen to glittering under the light, and she’s grateful it’s contained to her office. It’s not cloyingly sweet, but enough that for a moment she doesn’t _want_ to wash it off, and licks it off her fingertips like powdered sugar. She is still warm, almost unbearably so now. She shakes her head, tucking loose hair behind her ears. She bites down on her lower lip and unbuttons her blouse halfway. She has _work_ to do, and she’s going to do it even if she’s roasting in here. The brush of air against her sternum makes her shudder despite herself, a faint ghost of a caress, and it feels better than she expected.

She spares a glance for the coffee maker, the pot still made for two, and is fairly certain she’ll be drinking alone tonight. Genji might come to her office again, but she isn’t expecting him to - there was a meeting today about Blackwatch, and Jesse stormed out of the building. He and Genji are likely sharing their commiserations about the stuffed shirts and policy decisions, probably somewhere where they can either drink or fire off weaponry, if not both.

The thought of the ninja sends a new bloom of warmth through her body, a heat that rises to her cheeks and pools low in her belly. She glances down at herself, the bared cleavage and lace-edged bra, and wonders how he’d react to come in and see her like this. A faint smile crosses her face, and she slides one foot out of her shoe, kicking her foot up onto her desk. It almost brushes the orchid, and more of the pollen stirs in the air. She lets a hand drop between her thighs, wishing it was _him_ instead, and damn the consequences of being caught, damn the ethics committees that would call for her head and her license. Her head lolls back against the chair, fingers smoothing over the silk fabric between her legs. She wants to be touched, _right now_ , and the room is _so hot_ , and before she can think any more, her skirt is up and she has sunk two fingers inside herself.

It’s good, but it’s not _enough_ , and she can hear her own frustrated whine. She only has two hands, and all of her body is aflame with want. She moans softly, slumping down slightly in the chair, thumb playing with her clit as her fingers work in slow motions. It’s just not - not _enough_ , no matter what she does. One hand creeps up her shirt, reaches in and begins to knead her own breast. That helps a little, but it’s like blowing ineffectually on a bonfire to put it out. Her breath shudders as she rolls her nipple between her fingers, tugging and twisting, pleasure arcing through her. It helps for a few moments before the want redoubles itself. She closes her eyes, shifting her leg on the desk to give herself a little more room.

“Angela?”

Genji cannot believe what he sees: many night’s guilty fantasy brought to life. He has thought about something like this far too many times during late night coffees or when his angry nerves will not settle late at night, refusing to accept the cybernetics as part of him. His good doctor with one long leg kicked up on her desk, black skirt rutched up her thighs, revealing the garter belt holding her thigh-high stockings in place. The only sounds in the office are her heavy breathing and the slick sounds of one of her hands busy between her legs. Her white shirt is half-unbuttoned, the pale skin framed by cream lace, fingertips rolling together where a nipple must be. She looks across the room to where he stands in the open doorway, meeting his eyes.

She does not stop.

He shuts the door behind him and locks it. He cannot, does not want to, turn away. Every nerve and fiber in his body screams that this is a terrible decision, that he should not be here. Before he can think, he is standing in front of her, breathing in the smell of her arousal and a faint sweet scent beneath it. His chest shudders with a ragged inhalation; she is so close he can touch her, and it takes every last bit of restraint he can dredge up to keep from doing just that. Her head tips back and he sees sweat dewing in the hollow of her throat and beading on her forehead, though the room does not seem warm enough.

“Angela, are you unwell? What - what are you doing?” The words sound foolish even as he says them, and he’s grateful for the faceplate that hides his blush. It is patently obvious what she’s doing, and her hand has not stopped its movements between her thighs. He feels a tugging in his groin, the rush of blood southward at the sight of the impeccably professional doctor he’s been pining over fingering herself in the middle of her office, in the middle of the base, where anyone might see.

“As if you have not seen this before.” Her voice is husky and thick as warm honey. She doesn’t stop, taking it in stride.

“I have not!” He pauses as remembered conquests vie with shock. “Not you, anyway.” He tries to calm his strident tones, but the idea appeals to him - the delicate doctor’s inhibitions banished, and watching her, so at ease. “Are you - are you hurt? Do you need help?”

“Help?” Her laugh is low and throaty. “Yes, Genji, you can help.” Her lips part and she licks them, and the throbbing of his cock grows harder. She breathes shallowly, the motions of her hand not quite satisfactory. Angela lets out a soft, low whine, bucking her hips towards him. “I need - I need to be touched. It’s like - it’s like a burning, and only this - but it’s not _enough._ ”

She has been his doctor. He should not even be considering this, no matter how much he wants to. That doesn’t stop him from removing the faceplate, and he sets it on her desk beside a plant he doesn’t remember. The throbbing pain that has become a counterpoint to his every day is lifting. The discordant jangling of his nerves smooth out and take on a different sort of twinge, a kind he’s familiar with, knows how to answer.

He sinks down onto his knees in front of her chair, her other leg hooking around him. He looks up, and her pupils are blown wide, the beautiful blue iris a thin ring. Her mouth hangs open, tongue darting out to lick at her lips. She makes another soft whine, pushing her hips towards his mouth. The smell of her is even heavier here, mingled with that sweet scent. She moves her hand away reluctantly, as if even a second without touch is a second too long. He catches her wrist with one of her hands, her fingers is shining with her arousal. He can feel her bones, small and birdlike, but there is surprising strength as she pulls against him, whining again.

“Genji, please-“

“Are you sure, Angela?”

“Yes!” She rocks her hips forward, and he is confronted by a thin layer of damp silk that separates him from one of his most cherished fantasies. He smooths his hand over her mound, pressing the silk over her, and swipes along her with his tongue. She jerks forward, and he circles the tip of his tongue around her clit. He can feel her fingers knot in his hair, yanking him forward, almost into her. He noses the soaked fabric aside, trying not to tear it, and dips his tongue inside her.

If he hadn’t already wanted to lose himself in her already, he would now. She is musky and rich and it is addictive. The first strokes of his tongue into her make her almost keen with pleasure, pressing her thighs into the sides of his head. He tries to shift, but the hand gripped tightly on the back of his head does not let him move. The Genji of five years ago would have thought this a wonderful way to die. He spares a chuckle and the vibration makes her moan and grind herself into him, her grip loosening for just a moment. He takes advantage of that, his left hand sliding up to stroke at her, slip inside her. His tongue moves up, tracing nonsense shapes, lapping and sucking and trying every trick he’s ever learned. She rubs herself on his face, and there’s that sweet whine he heard, that sent him down the hall.

It’s a sound he would be happy to hear more often, if he’s honest with himself. The combination of fingers and tongue and devoted attention sends her over the edge faster than he expected. She tenses and spasms around his fingers, writhing against him.She sags in her chair, muscles limp. Wetness streaks his face as he looks up at her, wondering if whatever this was is done now.

“Angela…”

“Sssh,” she says to him with heavy-lidded eyes. The irony of her requesting quiet, she who had been so noisy, is not lost on him. Nor is the throbbing of his cock, impossibly hard and constricted behind the armored plates. He straightens up, and bumps her desk slightly as he does. He turns around from force of habit, and takes a deep breath in as golden pollen fills the air again. It settles on the exposed skin of his chest and arm, and he lifts it to his nose, inhaling.

“What is this?”

“Moira left me a plant when she… left.” It’s as if the words are difficult, and her eyes are no clearer than they were when he came in. “I think-“

“You kept something she gave you?” He barks out a laugh in shocked surprise, and reaches up to rub at his shoulder where her heel dug in. His skin still tingles, and the fire in his nerves begins to trace a new path, a new kind of burning. Her hand rests on his shoulder for a moment, and only at the contact does the fire let up.

His fingers work at the catches of the groin plate and he sets it on the desk, and steps back away from her to give her space. She’s seen him, seen all of him, but there’s a difference that even his lust-addled mind makes clear, leaving him nervous about her response.

His cock springs free and she moans softly in delight. The brush of air makes him shudder, and she slides out of the office chair and kneels on the floor, taking him into her mouth in one single smooth movement. He is stunned, skin burning hot and fierce as she looks up at him, the corners of her mouth trying to tip up in a smile. He doesn’t know how long he can last in the wet heat of her mouth, not with the way the tip of her tongue is playing over him, not the way one of her hands is stroking what her mouth can’t cover.

He curls a hand in her hair, the organic hand, so he can feel the strands on his hands. Her head bobs and the sensations of pleasure and need arch through him. He’s thought about this, too, but never thought it would be reality. She’s working at him artlessly and unrefined, but it’s with want and desire and willingness - she could have picked another way, he realizes, but she’s on her knees in front of him because she wants to do it _this_ way. She’s making her own choices, and that knowledge unfurls itself through him like the compulsion to chase his pleasure.

“Angela, I’m close,” he gasps. Her eyes brighten, and she dives down on him, working to take all of him in her mouth. He looks down at her, at the glassy-bright look, the grin still on her spit-slick reddened lips, and her cheeks hollow and he is gone, both hands tangling in her hair as his knees go weak and he can feel her swallowing. She keeps him there for a moment, long enough to be sure he’s done, before she draws her head away and the brush of air against his cock makes him suck in a shuddering breath.

“We have to-“ She wipes the side of her mouth, knees wobbling as she stands. “We have to tell someone - report it to Medical.”

“Angela, you _are_ Medical.” His voice is shockingly composed. “And what are you going to say? Hello, other chief medical officers, I have been having extremely pleasurable bouts of oral sex with a suspended Blackwatch agent while we are both under influence of some kind of - something? And I should like you to restrain us?”

She makes a soft, annoyed sound, fingers closing on the cup of coffee close at hand. She takes a long drink from it, mouth puckering at the bitterness. “I am restraining myself already from dragging you to that couch and begging you to fuck me until I cannot walk. It’s like - like waves, a lull between the… needing. My throat is dry and I know this is wrong, except I do not want - I do not _want_ to stop. Even though my body compels me, I do not _want_ to.”

Her admission goes straight to his cock, already twitching its way back up. There is disbelief, that she would want someone like him. But if anyone knew what he was, it would be Angela, the woman who made him, knows him as well - or better - than he knows himself. His eyes are locked onto her mouth, reddened and swollen from the blowjob. He wants to kiss them, wants to taste her, and he moves in, hands reaching for her.

Their mouths crash together, and he pulls at her shirt, buttons popping off and skittering across the floor. He licks his way into her mouth, tasting the honey-sweet and bitter coffee and the hint of himself there, and knows she can taste herself on him. His hands grab her breasts, kneading. She drops one hand to his cock, another to his shoulder, nails running down the skin. Her touch is the only thing that makes the little song of agony bearable, makes fire racing beneath his skin go from pain to desire. This is not how he wanted their first kiss to be, not how he wanted any of his first things with her to be, if he had ever managed to be that lucky.

He reaches behind her and tears off the silk panties, his hands cupping her ass as he lifts her up. She makes a startled sound into his mouth as her hands wrap around his neck instinctively. Her lips never leave his as she wraps her legs around him. He looks around for the couch, feeling the wet heat of her inches away from him, barely that. She wriggles against him as he walks with long steps to the sofa, and collapses down onto it. Angela adjusts and shifts, straddling him, one hand once again in his hair, the other on his shoulders.

“Do you want this?” She forces the words out carefully, looking him in the eyes. It’s anguish for her to ask, if her body is at all like his, craving contact, craving joining. All he can think about is burying his cock in the slick heat between her legs, and she’s been under the influence of whatever it is longer than he has. “I’ll call - I’ll call if I have to, get someone to sedate us-“

“I want this.” It’s a different kind of release than his body craved, but he feels the better for it nonetheless. She looks relieved, and he wonders for a moment how she could ever think someone would _not_ want her, but that is for a different time. Not now, as she shifts and he feels the springy golden curls on his cock. She is staring into his eyes as she sinks down onto him, as if he is the entirety of her world.

It’s better than anything he has ever felt before. He has had his share of lovers, but there has never been anything like this. Not the way she rests her head on his left shoulder - skin to skin, but one hand holds tight to his cyborg side, not flinching away. She is a velvet vise, warm and slick and he fits just right into her. She rises up off of him slowly and it draws a groan from him, his hands settling on her waist. He wants to rip the skirt off, feel nothing but her skin, but that would be effort, and he works his way into a rhythm to match hers. They share ragged, shallow breaths. She bites into the meat of his shoulder, not enough to draw blood but to stifle her crying out. He kisses her neck where it meets her shoulder, tastes sweat and honey. It is there too when he licks the shell of her ear and tugs on her earlobe with his teeth, and she groans and grinds herself down on his lap.

He picks up the pace, thrusting upwards against the cushions of the couch, and she bears down, pressing her weight into him. The office is filled with the sounds of skin on skin and their panting breaths, broken with her moans into his shoulder and his own inarticulate grunts. Every movement sends pleasure coursing through him, the fire in his veins pooling at the base of his spine. She is everything that is good and right and the agony in him right now is denied release.

“I’m close,” she chokes out, grinding herself against him, hips gyrating, chasing the orgasm he’s sure is building up inside her. He wants this, wants to watch her lose herself around him, and he drags one hand to her clit, finger finding the sensitive bud of nerves and rubbing it in circles. She arches back and cries out, and the entire floor must be aware of what’s happening in her office. He fucks her through the orgasm, never stopping, and it is only matter of a few more thrusts, the quivering pile of Angela Ziegler wet and rippling around him, before the liquid fire spreads itself through him and there is no pain - there is no _anything_ , his world is just white hot heat and stars.

The office is almost quiet, for a few moments. They pant, her head tucked in the crook of his neck, and she expects to feel him go soft inside her. She doesn’t want to move - she isn’t sure she can, not the way her limbs feel like jelly.

“Genji, I am so-“

“Do not apologize.” His voice is low and rough, even through the synthesizer. His chest shudders, breaths trying to even out. “But this - what has _done_ this, Angela?”

“I think it’s the plant,” she says, slumped against him, fingers tucking into the space between some of his mechanical bits, finding a comforting grip. “I think - I think Moira left me-“ She begins to laugh, almost hysterically. “I think Moira left me a sex plant.”

“A…” He looks down at her, the way she’s laughing, and it seems so absurd, so ridiculous - but so terribly reasonable, given the geneticist in question - he can’t help but laugh too. “So she left and as her last act of vengeance… she left you a plant that would make you want to have sex?”

“Need to, I think,” she manages, and finally gets her legs to listen to her brain and rises up off of him. She doesn’t want to and her body immediately protests, nerves jangling and the unutterable absence of him filling her almost physically painful, like an amputation or excised flesh. She walks towards her desk, and she feels his eyes on her, the way her skirt is up over her ass, the stockings and garter belt still intact. “Increases heart rate, libido, decreases inhibitions, some kind of stimulus that only orgasm - physical contact and orgasm - delays.”

“That sounds like her,” Genji rasps, catching his breath.

Two more flowers have opened, and there are still several closed buds. Angela frantically looks around for something to cover the plant with. She settles for the rubbish bin itself, and upends it on the floor before dropping it over the plant.

The movement sends more of the pollen wafting in the air, and her fingers clench as she tries very hard not to breathe, backing away again towards the couch.

“It’s like - like an allergy,” she says, fingers clenching. “Once we’re - once we’re away from it, from the allergen, the plant, it should get better. Need to wash off the pollen.” She feels the slow rise of another wave, the want licking its way along her skin. “Need to get out of here, get to a shower.” She begins to pull her skirt down, tugging the hem down as far as it will go. She looks down at her shirt - a lost cause - and wraps her lab coat around herself instead.

“Labs? Decontamination?” He walks towards her, hand outstretched. She puts the groin plate into it, and turns away.

“Yes, no one should be there now, and we can clean up and call for someone.”

They hurry down the hall, Angela feeling the need tugging harder at her. She knows the way to the research labs fairly well, and the decontamination shower is easy to find. The room is empty and she barrels towards the shower like it’s someone in need of saving. Her hands fumble at the knobs, turning on the water and standing in it. The tugging does not ease, and she pulls off the lab coat, the remains of her shirt, dropping her bra onto the floor.

She opens her eyes to see Genji beside her, face turned up into the shower (thank God they made him waterproof, she thinks for a moment). His face turns to her, and those red eyes glow.

“It isn’t stopping,” he says heavily, cybernetic hand catching her at the waist, working her skirt free. “I still need-“

“You inside me,” she finishes, voice catching. She bends over, hands on the wall, and hears the clatter of the armor plate hit the floor of the shower. A moment later he is inside her again, one hand on her hip and the other pressing down just so on her ass. The angle is just right to hit the nerve clusters and he knows it. He pulls out almost all the way and then slides back in, a rocking rhythmic pace that she can’t help but meet. His name becomes a litany on her lips, and she can feel his hands digging into her harder, the way he slams himself into her increasing. The floor is slick and covered in her clothes, and she makes a whine of frustration and denied release.

“What do you need?”

“Here,” she says, taking one hand away and dragging one of his to her clit, the cybernetic one. “Until I-“

“Come,” he finishes, and she can’t quite tell if it’s in understanding or a request or a demand. She wants nothing more right now than to do just that, and his fingers ghost across her, trace designs, press hard and slow and she might not think he wasn’t affected, the way he’s being so deliberate about it. She grinds herself down, looking for the friction of his fingers, the pace of his pounding not letting up. She can feel herself begin to come apart, the aching want-need of more, more, more, until the spring inside her has been wound so taut it will snap.

“Come for me,” he says again, and this time it’s definitely a demand. This kindles a new heat low in her belly, one the plant and its effects have no say in. His pace picks up even more, driving into her as he chases his release. She widens her stance just a bit as, taking more of his weight as he leans over enough to grasp one breast and knead it, twisting and tugging her nipple in his grasp. His hips jerk, snapping into her as he buries himself to the root, pressing down on her clit at the same time. He pulls back a little and slides in again, and she is convinced she can feel every inch of him. His fingers keep working at her clit and she feels her own telltale tremors, making it up the crest of the wave and plummeting off and down.

His hand shifts beneath her and keeps her from falling. Her legs no longer want to hold her upright. He presses gently on her, and she finds herself rising up, his arms crossing over her chest and holding her against him. Her fingers cling to his biceps, using him for her own support, as the decontamination shower rains on.

She allows herself thirty seconds to calm her racing heart, thirty seconds to catch her breath, thirty seconds to revel in the body behind her and the feeling of him slowly going soft inside her before she steps away to the other side of the small cubicle. Her hand slaps a red button on the side of the shower, the button that will call security, call someone for the lab, call down the people that will make her the laughingstock of Overwatch. Half a minute before her world comes tumbling down.

Genji picks up the plate from the floor, reattaches it yet again, clearly uncomfortable. “Let them see me first,” he manages. “Surely this is not your first time in a decontamination shower.”

“Not _naked_ ,” she chokes out, realizing the sweet smell is gone, or almost. Her body still pulses with lust, and there’s undeniably some of the pollen’s effects still in her system. They’ll have to be isolated, her office completely sanitized - it might be easier to incinerate everything and decontaminate the rest, and only try to clean what mementos she keeps. Burn that plant as well, except for the fact that they might be able to use it for research, because that orange-haired beast of a woman is far too scientifically clever, could well have hidden the cure for cancer in it and rash decision making would see it destroyed -

Angela scrubs intently at her body, under her fingernails, behind her ears. “You - we will need to make sure all of your systems are flushed, that none of this is caught in your joints, your wiring…” She trails off, looking up at him as she slumps down to the floor. “I am _sorry_ , Genji.”

“I am not,” he says over his shoulder, turning just enough to meet her eyes, then dragging his face back away. “I wish it had been under better circumstances, but if I must thank Moira’s sex plant for this, I will. We cannot let it get a hold of us any more deeply than it is, but I am - I would-“ He stops, a hand curling into a fist in frustration.

She splutters underneath the water, blonde hair sodden, looking up at him as she hears the sounds of voices in the hall, the pounding of feet. Genji looks back at her again, and he is hard to read, even though she knows his body language like the back of her hand by now.

“Some other time. Without the plant,” she says, and he nods once as the doors to the lab burst open and Jesse McCree’s voice becomes pointedly, painfully loud all of a sudden.

“Ho-lee shit. I mean, I knew Angie’s coffee was bad, but decontamination shower? Really?”

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: I grin every time a kudos comes through on this, guest or logged in user, and a quick update and thank you to tell you all how happy I am people are entertained enough by it to kudos. It makes my day, and you're all wonderful humans! <3
> 
> A/N: “You know, I’ve never written sex pollen fic”, I thought. And then I got about four different ideas of how to write it, so here's one of them.


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